For Me To Know, For You To Find Out
by HoneyBling
Summary: [ ONE SHOT ] “How is it that you know everything about me and I know nothing about you?” – A Day in the Life of John Cena’s Personal Assistant. CenaOC.


**Title**: For Me To Know, For You To Find Out

**Author**: Honey Bling

**Summary**: ONE SHOT "How is it that you know everything about me and I know nothing about you?" – A Day in the Life of John Cena's Personal Assistant.

**_Review!!! Please?_**

**LESLIE'S POINT OF VIEW**

I've been John Cena's personal assistant for the past three years since he fired Marcus, the assistant before me, for writing bad checks to all the wrong people and constantly mixing up John's media appointments.

John's been a big part of my life as I know I've been for him; and basically, my job can't be explained in a general sense seeing as the job of a personal assistant depends on the person their assisting. And since we're talking about being John's personal assistant, you should know how unpredictable things can get.

One good example of John's constant unpredictability is that time he got back from a hell of a cage match, semi-conscious and bloody from head to toe. An ambulance awaited him in the indoor parking lot while the other was for his opponent in case. It was in "ambulance moments" like these that I was previously instructed by John to grab all his belongings in his locker room and follow him to the hospital. As I was doing just that, a paramedic came bursting into John's locker room telling me that John was asking for me. Without hesitation, I ran to the ambulance with the paramedic. By the time I had gotten to the ambulance, John was still not loaded; instead, he was gripping the other paramedic's collar tightly.

"John, let go of the poor guy!" I called out. John lifted his head to look at me and then released the paramedic. They carried him in and shut one door. The other paramedic then looked at me.

"He wants you to come."

I looked around to see if he was speaking to anyone else and then made my way into the ambulance. I then took a seat on one corner before John called my name out through the oxygen mask. His hand, although strapped to the bed (if that's what you call it), looked like it was reaching out to me. I moved in closer, only to have him take my hand in his. He then looked away as the paramedic on my side of the ambulance, injected him with what I think is an anesthetic.

I was caught off guard at why he took my hand in his at first, but what puzzled me was that he hadn't let go of my hand until I was told by the surgeon that I couldn't come along inside the OR. A nurse approached me, showing me where John would be spending the night. I took note of it and went back to the arena for his belongings and mine.

When I had gotten back, John was sleeping soundly in his bed. I approached him and examined the stitches on his forehead and the tight bandages on his ribs. This was a regular routine during pay-per-views and huge main event matches for John. He was used to seeing the inside of the OR and spending the night at a hospital.

Once, I even asked him why he kept doing what he was doing. He told me that he didn't do it for the fame and fortune, which I had already believed; instead, he told me that he did it because people liked watching him in the ring and because he was simply addicted to his fans and what they continue to do for him.

It was at that time that I wondered how people could say such cruel things about him. People stereotyped John as a player and a loud obnoxious person who likes to trash hotel rooms by having parties and drunken women lying naked all over the floor. These people couldn't be any more wrong.

To me, John was perfect. He was kind-hearted, sweet, and so many other things I can't seem to put into words. He wasn't too wild when it came to parties and clubs. In fact, he liked to spend some nights after his shows either watching a movie or simply playing cards with a few guys in his room.

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"Good match," was all I said as John entered his dressing room. I've been stuck in his locker room all night. The record-company of John was having conflicts with his schedule that they've almost dropped him from the summer tour quite a few times already. I explained Summer Slam to them and simply got a "If he's not willing to commit, we're willing to return the favor." Like that made any sense.

"Good? Is that all you can say?" John said raising one eyebrow and holding his towel at both ends around his neck.

"I'm high maintenance," I joked. "You should know that by now."

"Actually, I don't," John said taking his shampoo and soap from his bag. "That's your next assignment."

"What is?"

"Telling me everything about you," he smiled. "I'll just be quick and then we can head out."

"No partying tonight?" I asked.

"Nah, I don't feel up to it. Why? Do you?"

I laughed and said, "Go get your head wet. I'll fix up."

"You're the best," he called out from inside the bathroom.

"I know," I called back, hearing a soft laugh from the bathroom.

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John threw his bags on the couch then pulled his shirt over his head and kicked his shoes off before he jumped on his bed.

"You tired?" he murmured, slightly tilting his head to one side so I could hear him through the fluffy sheets.

"Lower or upper?" I asked, pulling my jacket off and rolling up my sleeves.

"Booooooth," John said unenthusiastically.

"At least straighten yourself in case you fall asleep," I laughed, hitting John's butt with a pillow as he groaned and lazily crawled closer to the head board. With that, I did the usual thing after John's matches; I straddled John's lower back and massaged his neck down to his lower back. It was something I got used to doing after a while. When I first started massaging John a few years back, I knew nothing about massaging people until he taught me how by massaging my shoulders and then my back. Problem there was that I was ticklish, which he found out about when I began to tear after the massage.

I closed my fists and pressed them down on his lower back. I continued on until I finally realized that John was asleep. With that, I slowly climbed out of the bed and got changed. We shared a suite that had two bedrooms where one was usually smaller than the other. After that "ambulance moment" where he held my hand, he always called dibs on the smaller room. And one thing I learned was to never argue with John. That was also until that "ambulance moment"; it was after that that John would hardly make any more decisions without my opinion.

When I came back to John's room to get my shoes, he wasn't there. I went back out and saw him leaning over the mini-fridge before he pulled out two beers. He turned to look at me and then smiled.

"Lite?" he asked raising the blue bottle. I nodded and briefly entered my room to put my things away. John always pulled out two beers when he wanted to talk.

"What got you up?" I asked him as he handed me the beer and I took it.

"Stuff," he shrugged as he took a big gulp of the beer.

"Spill," I said nonchalantly taking a sip of my beer.

"Where?" he asked reaching for some tissue.

"No that kind of spill," I smiled. "I meant, spill. What got you up?"

"Oh," he blushed. "You."

"Was I noisy again?" I asked.

He looked down at his beer as he tilted it around, suddenly fascinated at how the beer "magically" shifted from one side of the bottle to the other whenever he moved it. Then he looked back up.

For the oddest reason, his eyes looked like they changed colors. It looked much lighter and it glistened.

"How is it that you know everything about me and I know nothing about you?"

"You never asked," I told him.

"What are the names of your parents?" he asked.

"Roger and Elise," I answered.

"Siblings?"

"None."

"Favorite food?"

"Sushi," I grinned, remembering how my best friend rented an entire sushi bar for my birthday and how she kept bragging on how she got the chef to put together all the sushi's and sashimi's into what looked like a WWE logo. This was a week before I left to become John's assistant.

"Clothing brand?"

"Just as long as it looks good."

"Worst childhood trauma."

"At three, I got my foot stuck in the toilet. It took two firemen to damage the toilet and get my foot out."

"How'd it get in there in the first place?"

"Mom said she was going to change the toilet seat, so she removed it; but I really wanted to use my rubber Lucky—"

"You mean, rubber ducky, right?" he asked.

"No. Lucky from a hundred and one Dalmatians. I had a rubber toy of him and always took baths with – not funny, John!"

He stopped laughing for a while, "You're one of a kind."

I paused and looked down, my smile already faded.

"Did—did I say something wrong?" John asked worriedly.

"Nothing," I said placing the beer down on the table and standing up. John stood up as well. "I'll just head to bed."

"I did something wrong, Leslie," John said. "I wanna fix it."

"No," I said not looking him in the eye. "You did something right."

He looked at me, puzzled.

"It's stupid. I'm being immature—I should go to bed," I said as walked to my room. John jogged and blocked me from moving on.

"I don't want you to go to bed like this," John said. "I won't be able to sleep knowing I made you feel uncomfortable. What is it?"

"It's really no big deal—"

"It matters to me," John said. He then tucked my hair behind my ear and placed a finger on my chin. "Look at me," he said in almost a whisper. "You mean a lot to me. Knowing I upset you can crush me."

I opened my mouth to say something. I couldn't. Instead, I broke out to tears.

He simply came closer and hugged me tightly. Letting me know he was there.

No one ever acknowledged me and told me that I mattered. I took all those little "You're the best" comments from John as a joke. I never took them seriously. I didn't think I'd mean THAT much to him. I just knew that my job would sometimes make it hard for John to function daily if I wasn't there, but I thought it stopped there.

He slowly pulled away from the hug and looked me in the eye for what seemed like forever, then said, "You mean a lot to me…"

I rolled my eyes, trying to hold back the tears. When I looked back at John, he had a grin on his face. I looked at him, puzzled.

"When was the last time someone told you that you mattered to them?" John slowly asked

I shrugged.

He smiled.

"Those little comments?" John began. "Like how I say you're the best – I mean it all."

Silence.

"I love you, Leslie…" John said in almost a whisper.

I felt like an idiot standing in front of John Cena in my pajamas and my hair all messed up. I took a deep breath and tried holding back a few more redundant tears. Unfortunately, those tears were also stubborn. So they ended up sliding down my cheeks; but if it wasn't for John, they would have continued. He wiped them off my cheeks and smiled down at me.

This time his smile looked heartbreaking.

Then he spoke.

"You may not love me now but I'm hoping someday you wi—"

With that, another side of me took control. Before I knew it I had my arms wrapped around John's neck and his arms wrapped around my waist. Our faces were closer than I'd ever imagined.

I slowly pulled away and he lightly pressed his forehead against mine with his trademark smile on his face.

"I love you too," I smiled.

"Look's like I'll have to find a new personal assistant."

"What about—"

"Girlfriends don't fetch Air Force Ones and plan appointments. They get spoiled by the boyfriend."

"It's a rough generalization--"

"—But right now, I really don't care." Then his lips lightly brushed against mine.

I won't tell you what happened the rest of the night. That's for me to know and for you to find out.

**A/N** REEEEEEEEVVVVVVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW:D


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